


transfigured night

by icicaille



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 5 Times, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Francis Crozier is Scrooge, Hate Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Romance, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: Five years of Christmas parties at Erebus Luxury Yachts.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 38
Kudos: 111





	transfigured night

“Think he’s telling the one about how pigeons ruined his brand-new Prada? Or Versace, or Gucci, or whatever it was?”

“Hey, now, Francis, you’re speaking a bit loudly,” Tom says, clapping Francis on the shoulder.

“Oh, who gives a toss.” Francis throws back the rest of his whiskey. The interior of his shirt collar is a ring of damp around his neck; it makes him feel slimy, soiled. “Everyone else here is pissed. Or they should be if they’re not. How else could you tolerate these carnivals, year after year?”

A few paces from the ornate polar bear ice sculpture—the party planning committee’s interpretation of Mr. Franklin’s request for a “high-impact” centerpiece—James is huddled in a circle with investors. Francis recognizes John Ross, but the other faces, all old boys by the look of their grotesque bluster, are unfamiliar. He watches James smile, all white and gleaming, watches James’ spine dip with exaggerated, sycophantic laughter. James is electric under the lurid purple lighting, which irradiates the perfect triangle of his nose, the austere set of his jaw.

“You’re staring,” Tom says into Francis’ ear. Low, commiserative, barely audible over the 90s R&B the DJ’s got on. “Let’s go for another, eh?”

“Do you remember,” Francis says, only stumbling slightly as they approach the bar, “when that little prick was doing his work experience here?”

Tom sighs. “Yes, I do.”

“And before you tell me you’ve heard it already, a man’s entitled to his grumbling at Christmas.”

“Aye, but you’re three days early.”

Francis slaps his hand on the countertop. “Two Jamesons, neat,” he shouts over the roar. “As I was saying. That prick waltzes in here, all starry-eyed and _cute_ , trying to get all of us wrapped around his little finger. Do you know what he said to me the first time I called him into my office to go over the CRM software?” He tidies up his vowels, smoothes out all the burrs. " _You must be, like, close to fifty, right?_ Fifty! Christ. I was thirty-five!”

All the same, he felt ancient next to James, fresh out of uni, whose limbs were still expanding, whose voice still broke when he got particularly animated. James at twenty-one was incomplete: an assemblage of sharp-edged pieces that hadn’t yet knit together. When he finished up his work experience and left at the end of the summer, Francis thought no more of him, figured he’d gone to join his fellow posh twats at some hedge fund in the City. But twelve years later, James walked in the door of Erebus Luxury Yachts for an interview—graceful, incandescent with charm, handsome as anything—and Francis knew, instantly, that he was fucked.

“A credit to your memory that you recall this exchange so clearly, Francis. The lad was only here for six weeks,” Tom says. “Ah.” He hands Francis one of the whiskeys, takes the other for himself. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Francis echoes.

They drink.

The whiskey’s burn is a banked fire, simmering low in Francis’ gut. It’s as necessary now as breathing. Particularly here, of all places: an antiseptic hotel ballroom in Holborn, which has become Erebus' de facto party venue simply because no one can be bothered to research any other sites.

Francis is surveying the throng of hopelessly uncoordinated idiots on the dance floor when his gaze alights on James, still chattering away. By some stroke of misfortune—to which Francis has come to consider himself genetically predisposed—James catches his eye and waves.

“Shit.” Francis downs a shot and does a prompt about-face.

Moments later, fingers tap on Francis’ arm. Francis steels himself—one, two, three beats—and spins back around.

James is grinning at him. “Hello, Francis, Tom. Happy Christmas.”

“Yes,” Francis says. His whole body has tensed up, priming itself for confrontation. It’s only nine o’clock. They’d said _eleven_ , for God’s sake.

“Francis, John Barrow over there would love to meet you.” James bends down and leans in, close enough for Francis to smell the woody notes of his cologne; his lips just brush Francis’ ear, and Francis’ throat tightens.“Mr. Barrow invested a hundred grand last week, and he told Mr. Franklin he’s considering tripling that. So I’d say he deserves VIP treatment, don’t you?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Francis says. “Fine. Make it quick.”

“It’s so wonderful to be able to introduce you to investors, Francis. Our very own Royal Navy captain! You don’t see that every day. Everyone’s just got MScs or a degree in literature they had to abandon because no one would hire them after uni.”

Francis shakes his head, dodging inebriated hellos from staff as James leads him through the crowd. “I’ve no idea why you’re so fixated on this. To remind me of how far I’ve fallen, I suppose. It’s pathetic. Hardly a—what do you call it? _Lateral move_. Downgrade of the century, more like. From sailing to selling.”

“Nothing wrong with a career change, Francis. And I’m not _fixated_ , I just think it’s fascinating. Such a compelling story. You know how much I loved sailing as a boy. Ah, hello, everyone.” The nest of vipers blinks back at them. “As promised, meet Francis Crozier. Captain Crozier, if you will.” James winks theatrically; Francis rolls his eyes. “My co-EVP of sales and business development.”

“Captain Crozier,” one says, reaching out to shake Francis’ hand. “John Barrow. A pleasure. Your colleague has regaled me with some very romantic tales of your naval service. Where were you posted?”

“Well, really no need for the _Captain_. Francis is fine. Quite a few ships, but I captained the HMS _Argyll_ from ’96 to ’03. Nothing too exciting, mostly goodwill visits and the like.”

Barrow assumes a flinty smile. “Tell me, Francis, what does a sailor know about heading up a corporate department? If you don’t have the, ah—” There’s a feigned spontaneity to his shrug, but Francis can sense what’s coming next. “—domain experience, what makes you uniquely capable?”

The inquisition. Of course.

What does Francis get after fifteen years of working himself to the bone for Erebus? Entrapment: this never-ending spider’s web of networking, pitching, selling; forced to play nice with old windbags who’ve never had to work a day in their lives. He glances at James, who nods encouragingly, then calls up the spiel James wrote for him months ago. “An excellent question, John…”

After twenty minutes, the whiskey starts to hit; Francis can feel the loosening of his limbs that prefigures the loosening of his tongue, and he wrests himself away. “Well, gentleman, it’s been a pleasure. I do hope you’re just as excited about Erebus Luxury Yachts as I am.” He could gag, even as he hears James’ admonishment in his head: _You have to sell it, Francis. Turn on the charm._ “I’ve got to make the rounds, unfortunately. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow James for just a minute. A bit of shop talk.”

He and James step away, carving out space for themselves among the thrumming bodies.

It’s too hot. Francis slackens his tie, undoes the top-most button of his shirt. “Meet me in the loo in five.”

“We’d said—”

“I know very well what we said, but you just threw me headfirst into that fucking dog and pony show, James, and I need—” Francis snaps his mouth. He’s too far gone; the whiskey is already getting the better of him.

James chews his lip. “Okay. Let me go tell Mr. Franklin I have to take a call.”

After James has scarpered, Francis scans the crowd for Tom. It’s a zoo in here, almost three hundred people crammed into a single room without proper ventilation. He pulls out his phone and taps out a text. _Gone out for a smoke._ No matter that he hasn’t had a cigarette in ages.

There’s a private loo on this floor. Francis has reviewed the venue floorplan—forwarded from James, who co-chaired the party planning committee—assiduously enough to map out the whole place in his head. Out of the room’s south-east exit, down the long corridor, two right turns, one left.

Inside, James reclines against the sink, awash in sterile phosphorescent light. “So good of you to join me, _Captain Crozier._ ” He’s already unbuttoned his shirt. “Shall I call you _sir_ , too?”

“Shut up,” Francis snaps, though there’s not much real venom in it. Christ, he’d pay to see James on his knees, tearful, chin wet with spit and God knows what else, begging _sir, sir, please._ His cock pulses. It’s always been eager where James is concerned, immune to the wilting ordinarily brought on by whiskey.

He gets a hand around the back of James’ neck and folds him over the sink. “Open your trousers.” When James unzips, he says, “I hope you’ve done as I asked.”

“I don’t appreciate being patronized.” A lie, if the feline arching of James’ back is any judge.

“But you do it anyway. You like it. Like readying yourself for me, walking around like this, all wet.” Francis trails his fingers across the smooth skin of James’ hips, then lower, lower, until he touches slickness. “Shameless.”

It’s hazy after that: Francis opening his fly, giving himself a preparatory stroke, feeding his cock into waiting heat, James entreating him, _faster faster faster harder_ , crushing James’ cheek against the porcelain, draping himself along the length of James’ back, absorbing the rise and fall of James’ pants until they breathe as one, biting the meat of James’ arm, sinking his teeth in when James hisses and writhes, finishing when James seizes up around him in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck,” James says, sounding unmoored, when he’s bereft of Francis’ cock, left to teeter on quivering legs. “Fuck, Francis.”

They put themselves back together in silence.

Desire is sour on his tongue, but Francis can’t help it—he studies the sheen on the small of James’ back and his thighs, veiled too soon by shirt and trousers.

Then James asks, “Any plans for Christmas?” His tone is sunny, cordial, as though they’d just run into each other at Waitrose and not fucked like animals in a hotel loo.

“Jim and Ann and the kids are with his uncle in Buckinghamshire this year, and I have no intention of dealing with that nonsense—grumpy old fuck—so it’s just me and the cat.” Francis busies himself with tending to his cufflinks, which have gone awry. He pins them back in place, then looks up. James is pink-faced, expectant. Unmistakably waiting for Francis to return his volley.

Francis really couldn’t care less, but he supposes it’s the thing to do when a man’s let you come in him. “You?”

“My brother and his wife are visiting our mum in Brighton. I don’t have the time off work since I went to Ibiza for the whole month of July, if you remember; I think I sent you a link to my Flickr collection? Anyway.” James manages a limp smile. “Just me this year.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah.” James tucks his hands into his pockets, then pauses. “Um. If you don’t have any plans for the day, maybe we could go for a coffee or something? Or you could come round mine. I’d be happy to cook. I was thinking a curry, maybe, mix it up a bit.”

“Are you serious?” Francis blurts out.

The flush on James’ face darkens. “Well, there’s my answer, I suppose.”

“You hate me,” Francis says. “And I can’t stand you. Why would we?”

“God knows you have your moments, Francis, but I don’t hate you. I never have. I just think it would be nice for us to share a meal without leaping for each other’s throats for once. Or, you know, tearing each other’s clothes off.”

“This—” Francis throws his arm out in a sweeping gesture. “—is not that. It will never _be_ that. Don’t kid yourself.”

James sucks his teeth and laughs, short and scathing. “Well. I hope you and the cat have a lovely fucking Christmas, Francis. Thanks for the diversion.” Peering into the mirror, he runs his fingers under the tap, then flattens an errant curl against his scalp—cool and unconcerned, as though he’s the only one in the room.

“Yeah,” Francis says. “We will.” He stands aside to let James brush past.

Once James has gone, Francis steals a glance at his own reflection. He looks predictably vile, like he ought to be put out of his misery and tossed in the bins round the back. His complexion is variegated, mottled with shocks of red and sickly streaks of bone-white. There’s sweat drying on his forehead, under his arms, between his legs.

He could kill for a shower and four aspirin. He settles for splashing water on his face, shivering, hating himself.

* * *

Francis is four whiskeys down when Mr. Franklin ascends the stage and taps the mic. There’s instant feedback—a piercing, overloaded static burst that sets his head pounding.

He’s always hated Erebus’ annual Christmas parties, but tonight has been particularly odious after yesterday’s revelation: the latest balance sheet from accounting, updated with Q4 projections. The nail in the coffin, confirming the shocking precarity of their position.

Francis knows in his bones it’s because Mr. Franklin insisted on spending thirty percent of their sales revenue on a Facebook-based ad campaign. _Platform usage has been declining for close to a decade_ , Francis told him at a board meeting back in February—obvious even to a luddite like himself. James had backed him up, too: _Francis is right, sir. We should be targeting Instagram._ But Mr. Franklin smiled and said, _Nonsense, boys! Janey and I use our Facebooks every day. I think we’re headed in the right direction._ And when Francis kicked his chair back and stood, frothing, _We are burning money here, John. This is going to kill our numbers_ , Mr. Franklin only replied, in that incongruously mild tone of his, _You’re free to walk away from this company if you don’t believe in its vision, Francis._

Francis has stewed over it for months. He’s moaned to Tom, to Thomas Jopson, to Jim, to his cat, to Sophia when they caught up over coffee. Once to James, even, who closed the door to his office before gesturing at Francis to go on. _Well, you’re right, Francis._ With a wry smile: _You usually are, unfortunately. But he runs the show here, not you or me, and working yourself into a lather over this is only going to give you hypertension._

Their assignations tapered off as Francis’ outrage smoldered and swelled, nearly to overflow. The office has become more or less off limits—not because Francis fears exposure or magically acquired a conscience, but because his mood is guaranteed to plummet the second he sets foot in the place. Instead, he’s had James over his flat on a dozen or so occasions. The first time, he texted ground rules to James in advance: _No spending the night no matter how late it gets, bring your own supplies, only shower here if you absolutely must_. James replied, _Really?_ with an eye roll emoji, but materialized on Francis’ doorstep all the same. They’re not particularly pleasant affairs—hasty and vacant of pillow talk—but after James departs, Francis is overcome, persistently, by an uneasy, anxious feeling, like he’s gone out and realized too late that he left his wallet at home.

He drinks to quash it. Just one small nightcap, he tells himself, well-deserved after suffering two hours of James Fitzjames’ company. The nightcap accretes into two, three, and by seven o’clock in the morning, when he ought to be scarfing down breakfast before heading into work, he’s had—well. Quantifying is useless at this point.

He’s taken to stashing bottles under his desk, sneaking sips in between meetings and phone calls. More often than not, he stumbles out the door at five, too hammered to contemplate dinner, and pretends he doesn’t see Thomas tidying up the ravages of his office.

It’s fine, though. All under control. He functions. Occasionally eats and sleeps. He does his job well—superbly, in fact, if anyone asks him, which they don’t—keeps the lights on, the motor running.

But Francis never meant to do this job forever. All it signifies is a steady paycheck, a retirement fund, a reason to get out of bed. He’d thought, when he and Jim completed their commissions and retired from the navy, that they might go into business, that they didn’t have to give up sailing for good; they’d discussed, among other things, crewing private charters together. But then Jim got married and elected to live off his family’s prodigious fortune, which left Francis in the lurch, close to broke and sans career path. Jim’s uncle, who was injecting capital into some promising new venture called Erebus Luxury Yachts, phoned Francis—at Jim’s behest, naturally—and said, _Look! Boats! You’ll be perfect._ Imagining command of his own yacht, ferrying passengers to and fro along the Cornish coast, Francis signed a contract the next day.

What he got was nearly two decades of the most vapid desk job known to man.

Despite the drinking and the indifference, he’s done well at it. He has a good nose for business; he’s smart and efficient, with substantive experience delegating workloads and managing personnel. And, after having risen in the ranks to become Mr. Franklin’s second-in-command, he’s now got enough in the bank to finance his own enterprise. Get back on the water, behind the helm—it’s what he’s wanted since the day he left the service.

But he doesn’t. He’s inert. Just stays and stays and suffers and never leaves.

The thing is: he might not even mind the number crunching if anyone at this fucking horror show ever gave him his due. Yet no one shows him an ounce of respect. No one likes him, really, besides Tom; even his PA, Thomas, is paid to be loyal. Francis suspects that Mr. Franklin—who once referred to him as _Francis Crozier, our resident doomsayer_ in a board meeting—only keeps him on to serve as the token contrarian.

The token laughing stock, more like.

“Whoops!” Mr. Franklin says. He taps the mic again. “Testing! Goodness. These things are touchy, aren’t they?” He scans the crowd, looking every inch the benevolent monarch with that supercilious smile plastered on. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have some rather bittersweet news. In order to spend more time with my beloved wife, Janey, and our grandchildren, I will be stepping down as president and CEO of Erebus Luxury Yachts in two years.”

Francis chokes on his drink, somehow swallows without coughing or spitting up all over himself. Just like Mr. Franklin, isn’t it, to drop a fucking bomb without alerting any of his senior leadership.

The crowd buzzes, inquisitive, and Francis raises an incredulous brow at Tom, who shrugs at him, then mouths, _Don’t know shit_. Francis’ eyes seek out James next, but James is posted beside the stage, face upturned toward Mr. Franklin.

“Before I go,” Mr. Franklin says, “I will be hard at work overseeing the transition of a new president and CEO, and I’m delighted to announce my successor here tonight.”

All at once, there’s something bright and fizzy bubbling up within Francis. Something he hasn’t felt in so long, the very naming of it eludes him for a moment.

Pride.

Perhaps they’ll have a cake waiting for him in the office tomorrow morning. A brief, tasteful celebration of his dedication and perseverance. They’ll all shake his hand, even James, and tell him how much he deserves this, how excited they are to work under someone who’s got a real handle on things.

“Please welcome to the stage James Fitzjames. In the five years James has been with Erebus, he’s proved to be not only a brilliant innovator, but also an intensely loyal…”

“Jesus Christ,” Francis breathes. He might actually break the glass in his hand, he’s clutching it so hard. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Shit,” Tom says. “Francis, are you—”

Francis is already stalking over to the bar. He orders three shots and throws them back as fast as he can, though his hands are trembling. The lights, the heat, the smell of sweat and bodies and hot catering—he’s struck by a queasy, vertiginous sensation, like he ought to go and be sick in the toilet. “Fuck!” He pounds the countertop with a fist.

“All right, mate?” the bartender says, but Francis waves him off. He closes his eyes, rubs his aching temples, then wheels around and staggers toward the stage. The room spins and swirls before him, a wild, discordant constellation of neon.

He knows he’s drunk. Exceedingly drunk. He ought to go home, exorcise all his fury in an email that will remain forever consigned to the drafts folder, sleep it off, prepare a battle plan tomorrow. But there’s another option, which is rather more attractive right now: a good, meaty row with the backstabbing bastard who’s busy closing out his speech.

Francis approaches the lip of the stage and waits there. Inexplicably, he summons a glance from James, whose eyes go all huge when he spies Francis’ bared teeth. James’ tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and Francis grins. His fingertips are tingling; he’s itching to get his blood pumping, prove that he won’t go down without a fight.

There’s rapturous applause as James descends the staircase.

“How long have you known?” Francis says, cornering him.

“You’re drunk, Francis. Go call a cab. This isn’t the time.”

“Don’t want me spoiling your big night? Too bloody bad. I said, James, how long have you known?”

“Are we really doing this?” When Francis doesn’t budge, James seizes Francis’ arm, drags him close to the curtain billowing at the edge of the room. Then he inclines his head and says, quiet enough that Francis barely picks it up, “He told me on the first of December. Happy?”

Francis rears back. “I _fucked_ you two weeks ago. You didn’t think it appropriate to tell me then, when I had my—”

“Be quiet, Francis,” James hisses. “You’re being very, very loud right now. Don’t cause a scene.”

“Well, I should. Everyone here should know what a self-serving cretin you are. How you’ll lick anyone’s boots to get what you want. Have you been shagging John Franklin on the side, too? Is that why he’s done this?”

“I _deserve_ this job, Francis!” James jabs a finger at him. “I am good at what I do, and I believe in this company, wholeheartedly. I believe in Mr. Franklin. That’s what matters. Not how old I am, or how long I’ve been here.”

“Bollocks. The mincing dutiful son act doesn’t fool me, James. You don’t buy what he’s peddling. You don’t even like him!”

“Yes, we don’t always see eye to eye at work. I’ve never obscured that. In fact, I have publicly taken your side many times! But he’s been a valuable friend and mentor to me, and I don’t take that for granted.”

“This is unbelievable,” Francis mumbles, scrubbing at his face. “Don’t be surprised if I hand in my resignation tomorrow. Total fucking disgrace. Christ. I should have never left the navy. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Go home and sober up, Francis. Call your therapist, because clearly you’ve got a lot of issues you need to work through.” James’ nose wrinkles. “I’m happy to discuss at a later date when you’re not slurring your words. Goodnight.”

Francis stands there, frozen, reeling, watching James vanish through the double doors across the ballroom. It’s all moving too fast; his brain and his tongue can’t keep up. He thinks, really, that he might pass out. But then he remembers the unbelievable indignity he’s just endured, how James sheltered this secret even with Francis’ cock up his arse, and starts after him.

Once he’s found James in the corridor, he shouts James’ name. It’s thunderous, possibly embarrassingly so, but he’s beyond caring.

James turns, color high. “Enough.”

“I’m not done. I wanted to say—” Finding himself listing to one side, Francis hastily corrects his posture. “Er. I wanted to say. You can certainly forget about any more _eleven o’clocks_ at these parties, or anywhere else.”

“No kidding, Francis. This isn’t normal. Colleagues don’t do _this_. It’s fucked up and dysfunctional, and it needs to end.”

“It was going fine till you stabbed me in the fucking back. Wanker.”

“Oh, look at you, Francis.” James shakes his head. “ _It was going fine_. I thought there was no _it_ to speak of. Didn’t you tell me so yourself last Christmas?”

“Yeah, well,” Francis says, floundering. “Weren’t even a good fuck. Just a loose hole.”

“You know, every day I thank God Sophia left you when she had the chance. Thinking about that poor woman marrying you turns my stomach. If you keep on like this, you’re going to die alone. And the worst part is, I don’t think you even mind it! I think you _want_ to be alone. Stew in all your misery, pretend that no one’s ever reached out to you or cared about you.”

“Oh, and you’re any different?” Francis says. Instinctively, he’s shifted into his old uni boxing stance: legs shoulder-width apart, left foot leading by a pace, right heel off the ground. He’s got to get one good hit in before he can slink off to lick his wounds. Doesn’t matter that he’s lost a good chunk of his cognitive functioning at this point, that his head is swimming and smarting badly. “All the Twitter followers in the world can’t make up for the fact that you’re desperate to be loved. You don’t even have a personality; you just kiss arse after arse in the hopes that someone will give you the praise you can’t live without. Who’d want a piece of that?”

“My God,” James says. Within a split second he’s crowded up against Francis, the both of them breathing heavily. “You’re pathetic.”

They turn when the doors swing open.

“The hell is going on here?” Tom’s voice is raised. Francis has never seen him like this: serious, stern, brooking no argument. “Francis, come on. Leave him be.”

“Do what your mate says.” James is still too close. “Go on home to your lonely flat like the disgrace you are.”

“Francis, come on,” Tom repeats. He lays a hand on Francis’ arm.

Francis is still holding his glass. He doesn’t think twice when he hurls it to the floor, when it shatters and splits into a thousand tiny shards, because rage is deeper than reason or logic, and he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. It feels too good.

When Tom curses, he whips his head around and sees a piece of glass, about the size of a playing card, protruding from Tom’s trouser leg, a few inches below the knee. In an instant, all the thrill spills out of him—an upset pitcher that’s made a terrible, terrible mess. His eyes flit from James, who’s stock-still, to Tom, and back again. He starts: “I—” But there’s nothing to say.

He crouches at Tom’s feet, helps him unstick the shard and sops up the blood with a handkerchief, tells Tom a million times how sorry he is, how he knows he’s gone too far, even when Tom sighs and says it doesn’t really hurt anyway, it’s fine, he’ll just stick a plaster on and be done with it. He evades James’ eyes, too, while James calls an Uber to take them to A&E, because all he can think about is getting to his phone. When Tom is up on his feet and limping toward the lift, Francis fishes it from his pocket, opens his mail app, and looks for an email Thomas sent him four years ago, after Sophia turned down his second proposal and the drinking got worse. There: _Clinics in London - Options_.

* * *

This year has been quite unlike any of the others Francis has lived. A string of singular points, a series of firsts through which the world has revealed itself anew.

His first steps out into the world after sixty days in treatment. The first time he tidies his flat and disposes of the bottles he kept squirreled away in his closet, under the bathroom sink, behind the sofa. His first day back in the office, met with courteous, if cool, greetings. His first meetings with his team, with Mr. Franklin, with James, reviewing their transition plans—to which Francis can no longer, in good conscience, object—and KPIs and quarterly rocks. The first time he strolls past an off-license around the corner from his building and halts in front of it, biting his tongue, but doesn’t go in. The first storm, first blooms of spring, first heatwave, first turning of the leaves. All of it without a drop.

And now, here, his first Christmas. His first office gathering since last year’s, the thing that split his life into two: before, after.

He considered begging off at first. At their last session, his therapist told him, _It would be totally understandable; there’s going to be a lot of alcohol there_ , but lately he’s felt good—really good, steady, in control—and said as much. So they talked about a plan, and Francis jotted down some strategies in his notes app, rehearsed a couple talking points, reassured himself that he can leave any time he likes. But it’s going well so far. The toasts, the raucous laughter, the half-full glasses left out on cocktail tables—he sees it all, and it’s fine.

“We can always go if you like,” Tom says, sipping his water. The bar is invisible from where they stand; they’ve cloistered themselves in a dim corner of the ballroom, behind a couple fake spruce trees. “Still early enough for me to put Hannah to bed.”

“No, no. I want to be here, if you can believe it.” Francis cracks a smile. “Think it’s good for me. Sorry I’m not much fun these days, though.”

“Well, if you mean less maudlin, less prone to moaning, then aye.”

“Oh, shut up.” Francis gives him a sharp elbow to the side, and Tom laughs.

That night, he waited with Tom for three hours at A&E. When Tom had got himself sewn up, back to rights, Francis—still wobblingly drunk, drained and red-nosed from crying—packed Tom into an Uber and shrugged off Tom’s concern. _You’re not well right now, Francis. You’re having a crisis. Come on, I’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa._ But Francis didn’t budge. _See you later_ , he said, and shut the car door.

It couldn’t wait a moment longer.

Somehow—he still can’t remember if he got himself a taxi or took the bus—he made his way home and passed out on the sofa. A little after dawn, he woke with a sore head and a bilious stomach, but otherwise propelled by a clarity he hadn’t felt in many years. He brewed a pot of coffee and installed himself at the kitchen table, scrolling through Thomas’ list. Phone calls were made, emails were written. That afternoon, he drove out to Greenwich to drop off Fagin with Jim, put in for medical leave at work, scheduled a weekly flat cleaning service, and checked into The Priory.

Around nine o’clock in the evening, he called Tom, terrified beyond measure that he’d scuttled his dearest and longest friendship. Tom, of course, only offered his usual unruffled affability. Francis was indignant, accusatory— _Stop letting me off the hook, Tom_ —but Tom gentled him, said, _Look what you’re doing right now, Francis. That’s apology enough for me._ Francis wiped his eyes, sniffled, and croaked, _Okay. If you’re sure._

He didn’t speak to James until much, much later. A text, even a call, seemed too flippant for what had passed between them. Francis hadn’t a clue how he was supposed to articulate it: how awful he felt about the whole thing, how badly he’d embarrassed himself. And James didn’t reach out while Francis was away, either, so Francis figured James wanted nothing to do with him and, for once, sympathized completely.

Even when Francis returned to Erebus in early March, they managed to escape any meaningful discourse for weeks, instead throwing each other all sorts of tense, indecipherable looks between the hours of nine and five. Then, one mild spring afternoon, after a flurry of texts to his therapist, Francis asked John Bridgens, James’ PA, to schedule a meeting. James showed up in Francis’ office not fifteen minutes later, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

_I wanted to say, James._

_You don’t have to, Francis; it’s fine._

Francis rose from his chair and let James look at him whole, to show that he had nothing left to hide. No more jagged edges that could hurt James. _No, I do. I absolutely do._ He was sorry, he said, the worst kind of sorry, for everything he’d done, how mean and contemptuous and miserable he’d been.

James glanced around Francis’ office, freshly neatened and smelling of cedarwood, courtesy of the diffuser Francis picked up at M&S. _I’m really glad, Francis. What you did was brave—reeling yourself in like that._

Francis could only bow his head and say, _I had to_.

There was no talk of past relations, but James hardly needed to spell it out for him. They were distinctly that: _past_. No chance they’d ever be renewed, Francis knew, and that was that. Even civility from James was a far sight more than he deserved.

At the heart of it all was that one word, _miserable_ : an anchoring point to which he returned over and over, long after his confessional to James. He’d been miserable because he drank, and he drank because he was miserable. It was a sick sort of ouroboros that he needed, his therapist said, to disrupt. _Let’s start with your job. I’m hearing from our conversations that you’d really like to connect with people there more._

So Francis threw himself into work. It was a useful orienting principle, he found, a rigid intellectual landscape that pushed him to set goals, structure his hours, and keep his mind busy enough to fend off intrusions. He owed Erebus that much, anyway, after God knows how many work days he’d spent useless and hungover. Once his team realized that he was back for good, that he had every intention of remaking himself, they treated him as the colleague he’d never been. Francis was happy to bring in a pastry box every Friday and take his junior employees out to dinner as a kind of informal mentoring scheme. In return, little routines that had been off limits to him—small talk in the lift, senior staff group chats on WhatsApp—were suddenly on tap.

And James—working alongside James was penance first, pleasure thereafter. At long last, Francis could see James for who he really was: competent, forward-thinking, imaginative, an excellent mediator and communicator. They were good together when they had to be, he and James, which meant that at some undetermined point between summer and fall, Francis discovered that he liked James personally. Quite a bit, in fact.

He’s come to relish their meetings, their occasional hastily-taken lunches in the office kitchen, even their midnight crisis management calls on Slack. When they speak, he luxuriates in the smooth resonance of James’ voice, the brief crackle when James alights on a long syllable.

Now, when he spots James across the ballroom, his heart does a stupid, traitorous little flip.

There must be something that shifts in his face, because Tom sucks his teeth, says, “Oh, Francis.”

“What,” Francis mutters. “I didn’t say anything.”

Tom pats him on the back. “I’m off to the bog. Go and talk to him.”

James is already striding over, all long and lean angles in his slim-cut suit. “Having fun, Francis?”

Francis snorts. “Loads.”

“Great.” James runs a hand through his hair. “Look. Actually there was something I’d like to discuss with you, if you have a minute?”

“Go ahead.” Francis braces himself for the sack he should’ve got last Christmas. A blow, to be sure, but he’ll be fine. He has savings, and he’ll get a hefty severance package, plus Jim will probably let him squat in that giant Greenwich attic of his.

“I never got a chance to say this before,” James says, all in a rush. “Well. That’s not true. I did, I’ve had a whole bloody year, and I’ve been too afraid. Going behind your back like that to accept was indefensible, no matter how bad things had got between us. It should’ve gone to you. You’ve been here since almost the start, and I’m just…” He sighs, scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, then lowers his voice to a near-hush. “Please don’t tell anyone this, okay? I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but—I faked the CV I used to reapply to Erebus. I looked up to Mr. Franklin, and to you, so much, and I knew I already had a foot in the door with my work experience, and so I thought, why not embellish, add a job or two here or there to fill in the cracks, bump myself up from ‘associate’ to ‘manager.’ I mean, I was selling books at Waterstones when my CV had me down as an analyst at Accenture! And I was so frightened—I have been, for ages—that someone would find out and I’d get booted. Sorry. Fuck. Dunno why I’m telling you this. I suppose… what I mean to say is that you deserve this job more than I ever will, dodgy history and all.”

There’s a hundred things Francis could say— _Why me, of all people? Don’t you know that it doesn’t matter anyway, that you’ve earned this on your own?_ —but he roots around for a phrase he came up with in therapy: “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

James laughs a little, but it’s watery and cracked. “God, you really have changed, haven’t you. Counseling speak 101.”

He looks at Francis like he’s waiting for a slap in the face, a blade to the throat, but Francis only grasps his shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the notch of bone there. “You do deserve it, James. Take the job. It’s yours.”

“But I’m—”

“James. Listen to me, hm? I believe in you. I will be behind you every step of the way. Whatever you need, I will be there to give it to you. Okay?”

A long, drawn-out breath from James. “Okay.”

“And if you need a scapegoat, I’m right here. Just blame any fuck-up on me, and everyone will believe it. Easy.”

“You’re actually getting quite popular around here, Francis, so it might not be as easy as you think. But you didn’t hear it from me.” James laughs again, but this time it’s easy and relaxed, an unspooling of tension. “Dare I ask about plans for Christmas?”

“Same as usual. Jim and Ann’s. Will for you?”

“Mhm. I think he wants us to drive out to Margate for the day, have a stroll on the beach or something. We’ll see.”

“Ah, that’s class.”

James extends his hand. “Thanks again for listening.” They shake, eyes pinned on each other.

There are glistening flecks of gold in James’. Their beauty makes Francis bold and stupid, so he adds, “And you can come to me with anything. Any time.”

“Oh.” The surprise on James’ face is warm and rosy. “Well, thank you, Francis. That’s too kind.”

Francis’ palm is warm, too, long after James walks away.

* * *

“Two years exactly, Francis; that’s wonderful. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” James sips daintily at his Perrier. He’s been given the all-clear to drink in front of Francis, but apparently he’s doing an end-of-year cleanse. Or a detox, Francis isn’t sure which—some sort of high-priced, faddish restorative, in any case.

And James _has_ looked a bit peaky lately. Probably just worn down from finalizing transition logistics, Francis supposes, plus the usual Christmas madness. In nine days, the first of January, James—heir apparent—will step into Mr. Franklin’s shoes.

“It’s nothing.” Francis ducks his head, does his best not to look like a besotted idiot, which is what he invariably becomes in the face of James’ approbation.

Earlier, when Francis arrived—on the late side, in the hopes of escaping an uncomfortable goodbye chat with Mr. Franklin—James caught sight of him almost immediately, somehow, and hurried over. _I was wondering where you’d been_ , he said, which made Francis, in turn, puzzle over why on earth James would be wondering about him at all. Equally perplexing is the attention James has given him tonight—going on two hours of unbroken conversation, clustered together at a table in the center of the ballroom.

“Think you ought to pop some Veuve to celebrate, though. Next week you’ll be running the show.”

“Right. Ah. Yeah.” James passes a hand over his face, then tries on a smile—but Francis knows him well enough by now to read falsehood there.

“What is it?” Francis says, as gently as he can manage. As far as dark nights of the soul go, they’ve both had their fair share—Francis over his recovery, James his “package of neurotic insecurities,” as he calls it—so it doesn’t feel too intrusive to ask.

“I know I was already sort of losing it last Christmas, but you were so supportive, and I figured I’d be ship-shape once I finally got down to the wire,” James says. “But I can’t do it. I’ve been sick in my toilet every night for the past two weeks just thinking about taking over. I feel terrible, Francis. I’m sure I look it, too. I think my hair is genuinely falling out; I’ve seen more collecting in the shower drain recently, and I just—” He’s starting to breathe fast, in a panic, and Francis’ heart clenches. “I’m going to announce tonight that I’m stepping down preemptively and handing the role over to you.”

Francis gapes at him. “James, come off it. That’s mad!”

“I’m a fucking wreck, Francis. I’ve never been this stressed in my life. Just worrying constantly and imagining all the things that could go wrong, how many ways I could fuck this up, plunge us into ruin. I can’t do this job on my own; I’m not ready, no matter what Mr. Franklin claims. Honestly, I think it’s always been a power play for him, something he can lord over you. This is just all—fuck! All so wrong.”

Some thoughtless impulse drives Francis to pluck James’ hands from his side, where they flutter like agitated birds, and enfold them in his own. James makes a small, pained noise, then, and Francis wishes he could scoop James up, tuck James in his breast pocket for safekeeping. “What can I do, James?”

James stares at him, unblinking. “Serve with me. As co-president and CEO.”

There was a time when Francis would have sneered at the offer. _So you admit you can’t do it on your own. Finally the lost boy comes running to daddy for help._ He would’ve turned it down out of spite, too: a Pyrrhic victory if there ever was one. Now, thinking only of James’ health and happiness, he says, “Are you certain? This is what you want?”

James nods listlessly—a slight, enervated dip of his head.

“Then if you need me, I’ll do it.”

“I do, very much,” James says. He swallows hard. “God, you’ve relieved a terrible weight from me, Francis. I can’t thank you enough.”

Spellbound by the workings of James’ throat, Francis is considering his reply when Thomas slinks out of the shadows and coughs politely.

“Yes, Thomas, what is it?”

“I thought you should know, sir, that Mr. Hickey—” _I don’t operate on a first-name basis with miscreants, sir_ , Thomas explained, after the new IT kid came to blows with Francis over Erebus’ recent influx of server crashes “—has roped Magnus and Tommy into attempting to oust the DJ we hired. He’d like to play from his own Spotify instead.”

“Oh, for the love of Christ.” Francis sighs. “Thank you, Thomas. Please go and work your magic, and I’ll be there shortly.” He realizes, watching Thomas fight his way through the crowd, that he’s been holding James’ hands all the while. Surely Thomas, with his hawk’s eyes and mongoose’s perspicacity, noticed. The possibility conjures an indeterminate storm of emotions.

Francis applies careful pressure to the circle of their hands, letting the warmth from his own seep into James’, which are clammy and sticky with sweat. “I’ve got to handle this, James. but I’ll be back. Go and find Dundy; he’ll cheer you up. And have a drink, hm? Try to relax. You’re going to be fine.”

After he’s dealt with Hickey—who bats his eyes and thinly denies the whole plot before he’s booted from the party—Francis turns his efforts to searching out James in the crowd. It’s later now, nearly ten, so guests are getting rowdy, limber and slapdash from liquor. He spots “the doctors,” Alex and Stephen, chattering away, having adjourned their legendary mutual grudge for Christmas per usual; Edward, who begs in vain every year to be excused from the Christmas party, bullied into merriment by the Hartnell brothers; Harry and Silna, intently swapping notes on the floral centerpieces.

There, further afield, is James, draped jauntily across a table. He’s laughing with Dundy—who Francis has never liked, it must be said, owing to that hideous Sloaney nickname and the louche streak that’s as French as his extraction. James seems carefree and unworried, though, and Francis relaxes, content to observe from afar. Soaks up the sight of James like a man starving.

Then, he sees Dundy’s arm snake around behind James, sees Dundy rest his fingertips against the small of James’ back. Sees James lean into it just a hair’s breadth, as if the liberty isn’t a liberty at all, but something perfectly ordinary. Nothing that’s out of bounds. Dundy tilts his head and whispers something in James’ ear, prompting James to giggle and kiss him on the cheek.

Francis feels as though he’s had the wind punched out of him. His breath is stuck in his throat, some oversized obstruction he can’t force up or down.

James and Dundy are just mates, Francis knows. He does. Really. And he knows he’s got zero claim over James anyway, no place in James’ life as anything other than a colleague. His own interest, however, has stubbornly persisted—just as pigheaded as the rest of him.

Even if James, by some unearned miracle, returned it, Francis would never allow it. Even if James wanted him still, how could they touch each other kindly and fail to think of all the times they hadn’t?

A useless conjecture, of course, because James doesn’t. He can’t. If Francis was ever foolish enough to be plain, James would let him down easy. Tell him, all honeyed solicitude, _I’m so flattered, Francis, but it really wouldn’t be appropriate at this point._ The scaffolding of their relationship is unsalvageable. And if they’re to lead Erebus forward together, there can be no pesky, unwanted feelings lying in wait.

So Francis goes. Heads to the cloakroom, shrugs on his coat, and walks through the ballroom doors. He’s waiting for the lift to arrive when he remembers there’s a terrace on this floor, which they’ve never paid enough to be granted use of.

It’s just starting to snow when he unlatches the sliding door and steps outside. Snowflakes land on his cheeks and nose, melt on his lips. The terrace is roomier than he imagined, wrapping around the corner of the building; it’s dotted with a few lounge chairs, some lofty fake plants, and a long stretch of wooden bench. Ahead, there’s a clear view of St. Paul’s and the Shard; above, in the bruise-colored sky, are spear points of stars, the moon poised like a scythe.

Attraction has never been hard to come by for Francis, who’s spent his whole sorry mess of a life desirous of people he can’t have. Girls at school who laughed at his rumpled cardigans and bad skin. His furtive crush on Jim that began at Dartmouth and only ended when Ann entered the picture. Sophia, who was eternally out of Francis’ orbit even when they shared the same flat.

This ache feels different than the rest, though. Like Francis fucked up something that could’ve been special. Real. If he were a man inclined to melodrama, he’d say: _the one who got away_ , because James is more—so much more—than the convenient fuck Francis once pegged him as. James was right about everything, too. Francis _is_ going to die alone. Back then, he’d taken a perverse pleasure in the inevitability, just like James said, because it confirmed every uncharitable, inebriated thought he’d ever had—the certainty that no one cared how badly he was hurting.

But he’s changed—he hopes he has, at least. He doesn’t want to be alone.

It’s too late, though, for a man who’s on the far side of fifty and only just wrestled himself back from the brink. _Who’d want a piece of that?_

The snow’s coming down harder; his fingers are starting to pinch and burn with the cold. When he hears James behind him, calling his name, he swears it must be some trick of the mind. Then James is right in front of him, looking down at him, blotting out the moon and the stars and most of the sky.

“Francis? Aren’t you cold?”

Francis shrugs.

“I’ve been looking for you. George told me he saw you heading out here. Don’t you want to come inside? Bloody freezing.” Francis only gives a minute shake of his head. “Well, I would warn you that you’re going to miss Mr. Franklin’s farewell speech, but I suspect you couldn’t be arsed anyway.”

“Farewell sermon, more like. I already gave up on church decades ago, but thanks for the invite.”

“Too right.” James huffs out a laugh. “And by the way, you were bang on about the nerves; a glass of wine and a laugh helped. I wouldn’t say I’m right as rain, because I’m still nervous as hell, but—sorry, rambling. All of that is to say that I appreciate the pep talk. You’re very good at them, you know.”

“Oh,” Francis says, wilting under the sunshine of James’ smile. “Glad to hear.”

“Do I need to give you one in return?” James settles on the bench next to him. He’s right: it’s intolerably cold out here, which must be why he scoots over so their thighs are just touching.

“No, just thinking, I suppose.”

“About?”

“Life. The future. What’s next for me.”

“Fair enough,” James says. “Er, somewhat apropos. I’ve been wondering. Do you fancy—” He draws in a shallow breath. “—dating again?”

“God, no, I think I’ve done enough damage there for ten lifetimes,” Francis says. “You? Are you on Bumblebee or whatever it’s called?”

“Oh my God, Francis, _Bumble_. You don’t always have to act your age, you know! And no, I’m not. Dundy and all our friends keep trying to set me up with this guy or that. They don’t listen to me when I say I’m not interested.”

“High standards?”

“I suppose you could say that.” James’ knuckles grip the edge of the bench, waxy and whitened—with cold or something else, Francis can’t tell. “You’re the only one for me, I’m afraid.”

Francis’ mouth is struggling to work. “Don’t take the piss,” he says, hoarse and cracked. He leaps up from the bench and wraps his fingers around the balustrade, then slumps against it. Might as well jump off while he’s at it. “That’s not in the least funny, James.”

“Francis—what—I’m not!” James wrenches his arm from the railing and swivels him around. “I’m serious.”

“Not possible.”

“What do you mean, _not possible_? I think I’d know, wouldn’t I? The workings of my own heart, my own mind?”

“You can’t just resurrect something like—“ Francis flings a frantic hand out into space, just missing James’ chest. “—like that. It doesn’t work that way.”

James jams his hands in his trouser pockets, frowning. “I’m well aware of your disinterest. I’m not expecting anything; I just thought you should know.”

Francis could bash his skull against the iron under his hands. “What, exactly, has given you the impression that I’m disinterested?”

Uncertainly, James says, “It was a hook-up. Satisfying your urges, that’s all. That’s what you’d told me every time we did it. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself the past two years.”

“I’ve never been disinterested, James. I have remained extremely bloody interested at all times!” Francis is close to shouting now. “But it’s not right. You and I both know that.”

“What, because we called it off that night?”

“Because I was a right bastard to you!”

“Oh, come on, Francis, I don’t think I was much better. I was behaving like a total idiot in those days. All that preening and swanning about.”

“You were only reacting to me. What a shit I was being.”

“Listen, Francis, we can agree that we were both shits, okay? Yes, it’s true, I thought you were a real arsehole, as much as I also found you irritatingly sexy.” James sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “But you’ve changed so much. Immeasurably. When you came back to us after The Priory, I felt as though I was meeting a brand-new man—the man I’d always wanted you to be since the day we first met, all those years ago.”

“And you—” Gathering all his courage, Francis decides, then and there, to go for broke. “You like that man?”

“I do,” James says. “I respect him. Admire him. He’s kind and gentle, although he’d hate to hear it; he’s rather invested in being a curmudgeon, you see. And don’t get me wrong, he’s utterly incorrigible. An inveterate stick in the mud. But he makes me laugh, and I know, underneath it all, he’s as soft-hearted as they come.”

“ _James_ , please, you needn’t—”

“He’s made me better, too. I don’t need to put on airs with him, or be anything other than who I really, truly am. I _want_ to be who he thinks I am. Because you’re the only one who’s ever really seen me, Francis. You’ve flayed me open, yes, but you’ve built me back up.”

The snow falls around them like a veil, like rice at a wedding, sticking to their eyeslashes. “Do you still—” Francis clears the lump in his throat. “Still find me—ah. _Irritatingly sexy_?”

“Yes,” James says, with a voice as rough as sandpaper. Snowflakes, wet and shining in the long sweep of moonlight, are scattered in his hair. “God, yes.”

“Good.” Francis angles himself closer. “Because I’m afraid I’ve overlooked something rather important.”

“Oh?”

“You, James, are in dire need of a kiss, and in all our time together, I’ve never given you one.” He raises his knuckles to the line of James’ jaw and strokes his cheek. “I’d like to fix that if you’d let me.”

James nods, and he does, tracing the seam of James’ lips with his tongue until James unfurls himself like a flower at the first blush of spring. James’ mouth, Francis finds, is soft and plush inside. James himself is confident and curious; the nip of teeth on Francis’ lower lip, particularly, is an unlooked-for delight. He slides a hand around the back of Francis’ neck and urges him forward; in answer, Francis sets his hands around James’ waist and holds him there in place, like James is his and he is James’.

“God, Francis, it’s been so long." With just the edge of a whine: "You don’t know how much I’ve needed you all this time.”

“I know, James, I know.” Francis bends in for another kiss. Heat spills over him, runs through him, all the sweeter for the cold. “I won’t let you go without again.”

James crushes their hips together, panting, “Let’s go inside, come on, please, I want you now,” but Francis stops himself before the last of his restraint evaporates.

“I don’t want to fuck you in the loo.”

“Oh.” James pulls back, chagrined.

“I mean, come home with me,” Francis says. He cups James’ cheek. “Properly.”

He’ll put on an old Miles Davis record, something languid and sinuous, and light a candle; he’s still got a massive vetiver one in the back of his linen closet that Sophia was meant to take with her. He’ll take James to bed, wake up with James in his arms, cook him eggs and make him tea the next morning. He’ll let James use his shower, then kiss him goodbye, and only wait fifteen minutes before he texts James something silly and too-tender. Maybe he’ll pop out and make James a copy of his key. Present it with the disclaimer that this is exactly the kind of mad, excessive gesture he makes when he’s in love. Because he is. Has been for a while.

James’ smile curves his eyes into delighted crescents. “Let me get my coat.”

* * *

Francis is wearing a new suit, his first in God knows how long—a decade, at least. Navy blue, fine-spun wool, made in Italy. A birthday present from James, who insisted Francis wait to debut the suit at Erebus’ Christmas party. _A little anniversary celebration of our own_ , James said, laying it on the bed to brush out the wrinkles. But the suit tugs at Francis in all the wrong ways, and he can’t stop himself from fussing: hiking up the waistband, flexing his shoulder blades, fiddling with his cuffs.

“What’s the matter?” James says, who’s crowded up against him in the lift. Not by necessity, but because he wants to—wants to soak up Francis’ warmth, smell the cheap Boots gel Francis uses to tame his forelock. “I thought it fit. We took your measurements three times.”

“It’s so _tight_ ,” Francis grouses. “I feel like I’m going to suffocate. Or, worse, pop a button off.”

“It’s slim cut, Francis; it’s meant to be tight. And you look good, so hush.”

The lift grinds to a halt, then beeps.

“Be that as it may.” Francis steps out into the corridor after the lift door glides open. “We’re only staying forty minutes, James. An hour tops.” With this year’s party falling on Christmas Eve, he wanted to skip it altogether, ring in their first Christmas together properly, but James wouldn’t relent. _Darling, our employees may be harebrained, but they’re not stupid. They’ll put two and two together if we both don’t show up._ Francis can never deny James a single thing when James calls him that, _darling_ , an unguarded dollop of affection that makes him go hot and soft all over.

Thomas is on hand to take their coats when they reach the double doors.

“Thomas, really, you don’t need to do this.” Francis bundles his up into Thomas’ waiting arms. “We pay this place to hire party staff.”

Thomas smiles, all teeth, and flicks his fringe back. “It’s no trouble, sir. I like to make myself useful. And no use in just standing around, is there?” He addresses James. “I’ll put yours under the same tag number.”

After Thomas has flitted off with their coats, James tips his head back and sighs. “He certainly doesn’t miss a thing.”

“Of course he doesn’t, he’s my PA. He knows everything. My siblings’ names, my blood type, my home alarm code, my favorite pasta shape.”

“Well, yes, naturally.” James sounds slightly aggrieved. “But—oh, God, Francis, look.”

Stephen and Alex are advancing on them—never a good sign, in Francis’ experience. Their combined energy is, as always, intensely discomfiting. Stephen looks ready to saw off a leg for sport, where Alex is all dimpled, avuncular mischief.

“May we have a word?” Alex asks, forging on when he gets the green light from Francis. “As co-directors of PR, Stephen and I are concerned about a situation we’re just starting to see the seeds of. We’re working on putting a plan in place for crisis management—make sure the company’s workflow doesn’t get interrupted, avoid sending the board into a frenzy.”

“Christ, what is it?” Francis says, alarmed.

Stephen cuts in, grimacing. “What my colleague means to say, Francis, is that we ought to know if this—” He wags a censorious finger at the two of them. “—is going to be an issue. Because fallout from a break-up is not going to fly so soon after Erebus has installed new leadership. And we all know how easily relationships fail, don’t we?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Francis says, while James splutters, “ _Stephen_ , really!"

Alex pitches an apologetic grin in their direction. “It’s only business, you understand. I’m certainly rooting for you.”

“It is very much not going to be an issue,” Francis says. “We are adults, and any _issues_ will be managed privately.”

Stephen sneers down the long slope of his nose, which never fails to make Francis feel about four feet tall. “If you’re certain.” He curls his lip at Alex, who smiles serenely like the golden head boy he must’ve been at Harrow. “Well. Gentlemen.”

Francis turns to James once they’ve swept away, sure he’s gone bright tomato red.

James can barely get a syllable out. “That was—my God—can you believe! The utter cheek of them!” He throws his hands up. “I need a drink.”

Tom finds them at the bar, IPA in hand. “Happy anniversary, lads,” he bellows. “Really thought you wouldn’t make it for a while. Good on you.”

Francis groans. “Piss off, Tom.”

“Yeah, thanks very much, Tom,” James says drily.

Tom only cackles and slaps both of them on the back.

Later, after they’ve exchanged pleasantries with the sales team and chatted with a handful of investors—John Barrow included, who, by some Christmas blessing, spares Francis the lecture about how he ought to run the company—James takes Francis’ arm and says, “Can we talk in private?”

Francis leads him out to the corridor. “Everything okay?”

“Just—I dunno, what everyone’s been mentioning all night. Naive of me, I guess, but I didn’t realize it was so obvious. That _we’ve_ been so obvious, so flagrant. At this point I feel it’s safe to assume that every single one of our employees knows.” James’ mouth is twisted up into an unhappy shape. “And then when Stephen asked if it was going to be an issue. I mean, classic fucking Stephen, but is he wrong? What if this all blows up? I’m not saying I feel this way, you understand, but I think it’s worth being reasonable about.”

Francis isn’t good with words. Never has been. All he can do is trust his body to articulate the rush of what he’s feeling, so he curls James’ fingers inward and gathers James’ hands between his palms—hopes everything he wants to say is transmitted in the conveyance of his touch. “If you’d like to draw up some sort of contingency plan, James, I’m happy to do it with you. Because it’s true, and I speak from experience, we’d be piss-poor CEOs if we let personal problems get in the way of doing our jobs. But apart from that? It doesn’t matter. This— _we_ —come first for me. I’d walk away from Erebus in a heartbeat if I had to choose. You should know that.”

There’s a dazzled shine in James’ eyes when Francis lifts their joined hands and kisses them. “Oh, Francis.” James presses their foreheads together. “You incurable romantic.”

“But I’ve been thinking, too,” Francis says. He’s read enough self-help material about how _self-actualization and personal growth strengthen relationships_ and all that shit to chart the next step. “I want to go back to real sailing. Not tomorrow, maybe not even next year, but soon. Working with you every day is a dream, but it’s not who I am, James. I’m a sailor. I miss the water. I miss the exhilaration and the freedom, all of it.”

James is nodding along, listening intently. He doesn’t look crushed, as Francis feared, but sort of—proud, almost. “That’s lovely, Francis. Yes. Yes, of course. We can start mapping out a timeline.”

“You don’t feel like I’m throwing in the towel? Or, I dunno, abandoning you?”

“God, no, I’m so pleased for you. If it’ll make you happy, I say onwards.”

“Thank you, James.” Francis heaves a sigh and raises his eyes heavenward, because sometimes he can hardly believe how damn lucky he is. “I think we can get away with heading out now.”

“What’s the time?” 

Francis checks his watch—another birthday gift from James, a TAG Heuer that probably cost him upward of seven hundred quid. “Bit after eleven-thirty.”

“Fancy a quickie? For old times’ sake?” James is giving him a sly glance.

“Oh, you are cheeky,” Francis rasps, and James winks.

Like giddy kids, they fall over themselves hurrying to the loo. Inside, Francis slams the door shut with one hand and shoves James against it with another. They’ve kissed a thousand times, but there’s still a novelty to it, a shivery promise of discovery: the sounds Francis can extract, the loose pliancy he coaxes out of James. Of particular note is James’ surrender into Francis’ arms when Francis nips right under the hinge of his jaw.

James’ skin tastes of salt. It’s sweat, surely, but Francis shuts his eyes and imagines they’re on the deck of a ship—his ship, _their_ ship—peppered with spray, lashed by wind. He’s scraping his teeth along James’ throat, ignoring the insistent jerk of James’ hips, when James pushes himself upright and pats his jacket.

Francis raises a brow. “What’ve you got there?”

“Never let it be said that I don’t come prepared.” James unearths a lube packet from his pocket.

“Presumptuous little thing, aren’t you,” Francis breathes, as James strips out of his clothes and lays them scrupulously across the changing table. He’d like to undress James himself, uncover James piece by piece, savor the whole languorous reveal, but James prefers it this way, he’s learned. James prefers to put on a show. Francis can’t say he minds it too much, at any rate, not when James knows the postures that parade his long legs and wide shoulders, the precise cast of light and shadow that illuminate his sharpest angles.

Watching James squirt the lube on his fingers and reach down, under one leg hiked up on the toilet, Francis is beset by another kind of desire. He wishes they were home—his flat, functionally; James’ has been a glorified storage unit since late summer—so he could tend to James properly, get James good and wet and whining on his own fingers. The next best thing, though, he can do: removing his jacket, snapping his braces off, shimmying his trousers down around his ankles. His shirt stays on to stave off the chill.

“Okay,” James announces, straightening. “Where do you want me?”

Francis considers the geography of the room, its limited configurations. He could have James over the sink—God knows they’ve done it before—but the memory is acrid, the taste of something he’s come to regret profoundly. Instead, he flips the toilet lid down and makes a seat for James with his lap. “Come here,” he says, crooking a finger. “You’re too far away.”

As James straddles him, Francis grips his cock and gives it a vigorous pump. It’s flushed, aching, dripping at the tip, ready for James to take into himself—which James does, slowly and smoothly. Once he’s settled on the full length of Francis’ cock, he exhales in a steady stream, eyes closed.

“There you go,” Francis says, urging James on with spasmodic twitches of his hips. The backs of his thighs are slippery with sweat, sliding minutely across the plastic. James takes his pleasure with abandon: one hand braced on Francis’ shoulder, nails clawing into the meat there, another braced on the metal bar alongside him, as he rises and falls, faster and faster. Francis matches his pace, thrusting up as James grinds down on his cock.

Soon, there’s a hitch in James’ breath that signals his end. He starts: “I’m—” then clenches around Francis’ cock so hard Francis feels like he’s being choked from the inside out. “Bleeding Christ, James,” he gasps, strangled, ears popping; James is chanting some filthy litany: “Fill me up, go on, Francis, that’s it, all of it in me.” Francis clutches James around the middle and holds him there while he spits out all manner of imprecations, digs his heels into the floor, lets himself go.

After, they hold each other.

James crosses his arms in a ring around Francis’ neck and blows out all his breath in a long stream, then lets his head loll against Francis’ shoulder. Still grasping James’ waist, Francis unsticks his grip and strokes up and down James’ sides, murmuring quiet, gooey nonsense he’ll never admit to outside of this room.

“Francis?”

Francis rouses himself from his daze. “What is it?”

James pulls back to meet Francis’ eyes. “I’m sorry if I seemed spineless or fickle earlier. I suppose I was just thinking about all that’s come before. But let me be plain about it, Francis. I’ve never been happier. You make me so very, very happy.”

Thinking of the velvet box hidden among his shabby old cardigans, and of the queasy anticipation he felt when the sales assistant handed it over, Francis is pelted by a number of sensations—the prevailing one being joy. “Nothing to be sorry for. I know you don’t like it when I speak poorly of myself, so I’ll save it, but you’re right; ours is not a conventional story. It’s hard to forget that.”

“I love you because of it, Francis, not in spite of it,” James says. There’s a rare solemnity in his manner. “For all the bumps in the road, if you’ll forgive the dreadful metaphor, it’s one we’ve traveled together.”

Francis laughs, even as his heart threatens to burst out of his chest. “You are bloody well not forgiven, James. That is dreadful, even for you.” He smacks James on the thigh when James wriggles around Francis’ soft cock. “All right, all right, get off. We’ve got goodbyes to say, and then I am taking you home.”

Levering himself upright, James tosses his hair out of his face, smug and imperious, and rolls his shoulders. “You’ve made quite a mess, Francis. I expect you to clean it up later.” Francis’ cock has slipped out, leaving a viscous trail on the inside of James’ thigh. “Preferably with your mouth.”

When they’ve tied each other’s ties and neatened each other’s rumpled collars, Francis touches James’ cheek and hauls him in for one last kiss. He can’t stop kissing James—won’t stop kissing him, perhaps ever, unless James elects to push him away. But James doesn’t, so they kiss, again and again, until James’ lips are red and puffy and sweat is beading on Francis’ temples.

Then Francis’ watch beeps.

James wipes his mouth, still breathing heavily. “Did you set an alarm or something?”

“No, no,” Francis says, mashing buttons indiscriminately to disable it. “It’s midnight, so I think it’s set to alert me of the holiday. Stupid thing. Well, Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.” The soppy expression on James’ face—a mirror of Francis’ own, he’s sure—arranges itself into a smile. “Hm. It’s always Christmas for us, isn’t it? Curious.”

“Means you’ve got your own personal Scrooge,” Francis says, looping an arm around James as they exit into the corridor, toward the ballroom. “A curmudgeon you’ll have to endure for the rest of your days.”

James jostles his shoulder. “Is that a promise?”

Francis thinks again of the little box in his wardrobe—which he’s got plans to leave under the towering Fraser fir James lugged home last week—and says, grinning, “You’ll have to wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did you really think I was going to end a Christmas fic without being unabashedly cheesy on main? Francis Crozier is nothing if not a U-Hauler.
> 
> Title comes from the translation of Richard Dehmel's _[Verklärte Nacht](https://harpers.org/2008/01/dehmels-transfigured-night/)_ , which inspired one of my [very favorite classical pieces](https://youtu.be/EOfLQKatuGM) by Arnold Schoenberg.
> 
> Many thanks to Cee for the careful and rigorous Britprick! I owe you my life.


End file.
